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Bukowski night at Smiths!

By johnboy - 22 March 2012 26

This has come in and is far too good not to share [Video only safe for work with headphones]

Steven Bailey and Tom O’Niel will be hosting a reading of works by the decrepit American poet Charles Bukowski at Smith’s Bookshop

Thursday 29 March, 6:30pm. Wine will be served – teetotallers need not attend.

bukowski poster

What’s Your opinion?


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26 Responses to
Bukowski night at Smiths!
1
phil m 4:22 pm
22 Mar 12
#

Where to RSVP?

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2
johnboy 4:24 pm
22 Mar 12
#

phil m said :

Where to RSVP?

I think it’s more a “just rock on up” kinda deal.

Chuck would not have approved of RSVPs

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3
HenryBG 4:41 pm
22 Mar 12
#

“Drink. Yell Poetry.”

I’m torn between enthusiasm and contempt. Mostly enthusiasm for the Drink and contempt for dated American Poetry.


with an Apple Macintosh
you can’t run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
you have created on an
IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use
the CP/M operating system
but can’t read each other’s
handwriting
for they format (write
on) discs in different
ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but
can’t use most programs produced for
the IBM Personal Computer
unless certain
bits and bytes are
altered
but the wind still blows over
Savannah
and in the Spring
the turkey buzzard struts and
flounces before his
hens.

I mean, FFS….

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4
johnboy 5:24 pm
22 Mar 12
#

You wanted him to update it?

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5
SockEPuppet 5:25 pm
22 Mar 12
#

Although, by the sound of the poem, Arse VIPs will be more than welcome.

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6
HenryBG 8:59 pm
22 Mar 12
#

johnboy said :

You wanted him to update it?

Well, the daffodils are still daffodils.
There’s nothing like American writing in general to find themes and language that date at an incredible pace.
Add to that the fluidity of the english language and it really makes american-english-language poetry incredibly pointless compared with the incredible creativity that goes into poetry written in a structured language, eg,
Avant d’entrer dans ma cellule
Il a fallu me mettre nu
Et quelle voix sinistre ulule
Guillaume qu’es-tu devenu
.
.
.
Dans une fosse comme un ours
Chaque matin je me promène
Tournons tournons tournons toujours
Le ciel est bleu comme une chaîne
Dans une fosse comme un ours
Chaque matin je me promène
.
.
.
Que deviendrai-je ô Dieu qui connais ma douleur
Toi qui me l’as donnée
Prends en pitié mes yeux sans larmes ma pâleur
Le bruit de ma chaise enchaînée
.
.
.

Heh, . Another p#$%head like Bukowski…he wrote that one in gaol.

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7
justin heywood 9:03 pm
22 Mar 12
#

Reading some of his stuff, it seems that his chief talent was an ability to convince would-be hipsters that it was ‘hip’ to pretend he actually had something interesting to say.

The forced, self conscious laughter in the clip is a bit of a giveaway.

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8
LSWCHP 9:38 pm
22 Mar 12
#

Bukowski was bloody brilliant. I’ll be heading along if possible, and not for the grog.

“what matters most is how well you walk through the fire” – CB

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9
smiling politely 9:40 pm
22 Mar 12
#

There’s little doubt in my mind that Bukowski was a bit of an arsehole, and a lot of his writing is bleak and misogynistic. But there were flashes of brilliance, of true insight. Like his piece on Neal Cassaday when he was writing weekly for a Los Angeles street paper –

“…the only night I met him I said, “Kerouac has written all your other chapters. I’ve already written your last one.” “go ahead,” he said, “write it.”

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10
Hadley 11:51 am
23 Mar 12
#

IN FUTURE CAN PEOPLE ONLY RUN EVENTS IN WHICH I PERSONALLY AM INTERESTED IN? YOU HIPSTERS USING OUR TAX DOLLARS TO READ THINGS ARE MAKING ME RAGE-POOP.

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11
Jim Jones 12:14 pm
23 Mar 12
#

HenryBG said :

There’s nothing like American writing in general to find themes and language that date at an incredible pace.

Because America’s strongest impact on poetry was modernising what was becoming a tired artform. The impact of T.S. Elliot, Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickenson, the beat poets (Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti, most notably), e.e. cummings, Ezra Pound, Walt Whitman, etc. was all pretty progressive.

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12
astrojax 12:19 pm
23 Mar 12
#

well, he mayn’t be able to write but at least he was pretty. oh, wait…

i am never sure poetry should be ‘yelled’. unless it’s vogon poetry.

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13
poetix 12:39 pm
23 Mar 12
#

Jim Jones said :

HenryBG said :

There’s nothing like American writing in general to find themes and language that date at an incredible pace.

Because America’s strongest impact on poetry was modernising what was becoming a tired artform. The impact of T.S. Elliot, Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickenson, the beat poets (Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti, most notably), e.e. cummings, Ezra Pound, Walt Whitman, etc. was all pretty progressive.

Dickinson is God.

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14
astrojax 12:45 pm
23 Mar 12
#

poetix said :

Jim Jones said :

HenryBG said :

There’s nothing like American writing in general to find themes and language that date at an incredible pace.

Because America’s strongest impact on poetry was modernising what was becoming a tired artform. The impact of T.S. Elliot, Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickenson, the beat poets (Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti, most notably), e.e. cummings, Ezra Pound, Walt Whitman, etc. was all pretty progressive.

Dickinson is God.

but god is dead – nietzsche… hang on, so is emily. hmm, mebbe you’re onto something..? :)

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15
poetix 1:09 pm
23 Mar 12
#

astrojax said :

poetix said :

Jim Jones said :

HenryBG said :

There’s nothing like American writing in general to find themes and language that date at an incredible pace.

Because America’s strongest impact on poetry was modernising what was becoming a tired artform. The impact of T.S. Elliot, Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickenson, the beat poets (Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti, most notably), e.e. cummings, Ezra Pound, Walt Whitman, etc. was all pretty progressive.

Dickinson is God.

but god is dead – nietzsche…

hang on, so is emily. hmm, mebbe you’re onto something..? :)

*She* was onto something:

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then ’tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses’ heads
Were toward eternity.

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